Gold met red.
Atlas's eyes burned like twin suns against the inferno glare of Ares's gaze, and for a breathless moment the entire arena seemed to forget how to exist. Sound dulled, stretched thin like fabric about to tear.
Light bent inward, curling toward the two figures at the center of the world. Even the eternal radiance of Lower Heaven dimmed, as if the sky itself leaned closer—wary, reverent, afraid.
The air grew heavy.
Not with heat alone, but with intent.
Ares stood three feet taller than Atlas, his body carved from violence and conquest. He was broader, heavier, built like a siege engine given flesh—every inch of him radiating the god's unshakable certainty that the universe existed to be broken beneath his boots.
Fire licked along his skin, not summoned, not controlled, but emitted—the natural exhalation of a being who embodied war itself. His red eyes glowed brighter with every heartbeat, twin furnaces stoked by endless bloodshed.
